


Part II: Fifty Shades of Q

by jenlcb



Series: Delayed Gratification [2]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alien malapropism, Awkward Romance, Awkward voyeurism, F/M, Mind Meld, Musical theatre references, Vulcan Mind Melds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 22:58:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9209060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenlcb/pseuds/jenlcb
Summary: Q becomes human in order to win the heart of the pediatrician. He once again entangles her in his shenanigans and it could mean the destruction of the Earth. Their relationship is off to a "rocky" start when a race of Cookie Monster-like creatures force them into a very interesting scenario.





	1. More than One Way

_Captain’s Log, Stardate 55527.2 (Earth year 2378)_

_While en route to Algalon, after being diverted to Syroda by the immortal entity known as Q, I received a rather surprising message from Starfleet. A human recruit calling himself Q had asked to join Starfleet on my recommendation. He stated he wanted to, quote, “skip the whole drudgery of the academia process and just take the final exams.” He passed with a perfect score and now seeks a position as a history professor at the Academy. His qualifications and knowledge of the history of every known civilization is unparalleled. However, although Q is mischievous and has caused a great deal of trouble in the past, he has provided some genuine assistance over the years and I can't deny his knowledge of the universe and its species. He is fully human and stripped of his powers. I may live to regret this, but I vouched for him. He has been given the position at Starfleet as Professor of History of Alien Species of the Delta Quadrant._

## More than One Way

The first semester was halfway over and holiday break had just begun. Jane Navarro, assistant to Rear Admiral Andrea Brand, sat at her desk. She was finishing up some reports on her PADD and planning her holiday vacation. She would be visiting Risa, the pleasure planet, for the first time, and she was both excited and apprehensive. She was a buttoned-down career officer, but she had heard so much about the hedonistic and sexually open planet that she decided to see what it was like for herself.

She was pondering just how far she would be willing to take things should the opportunity present itself, when a young Andorian male furtively walked into the office, trying not to be seen. He was carrying a box, and he started to set it on the floor. As he crouched, he made eye contact with Navarro. He froze, then stood up quickly, embarrassed. It felt awkward to set the box on the floor and walk away, so he walked to her desk, handed it to her, backed quickly out of the office, turned, and ran down the hall.

Navarro glanced at the top of the box. On it was scrawled, “2Q.”

She was not aware of an office designated “Q” on the second floor, so she hurried to the hallway, calling to the Andorian to ask for clarification. However, he was already gone, so Navarro opened the box to see if it contained a clue as to its intended recipient.

She screamed and dropped the box.

Rear Admiral Brand ran out of her inner office to see what was wrong. Navarro had quickly pulled herself together and pressed a button for security. She informed them that a young male Andorian wearing a green tunic had run down the hallway of the 29th floor of the main building. She described the package and its contents, and the security officer said they were on their way.

Curious, Brand looked inside the box and involuntarily recoiled. It was the bloody, red-muscled, skinned corpse of a cat with a note pinned to its shoulder muscles like a dissected specimen.

Brand read aloud the note, which was scrawled in what appeared to be blood: _Cat is Earth. Q is flea. Goodbye Cat and all flea if not Q brought to us of ancient cat insulting._

“What does that even mean?” Brand murmured in confusion. Then more authoritatively she asked, “Is Q still on campus?”

“I believe so, Admiral. He hasn't checked out.”

“Summon him to Main Security, immediately,” she said grimly, then added, “Picard _did_ warn me. . . .”

***

By the time Q had met Brand in the security office, she was already made aware that a similar package and note had been dropped at Federation Headquarters as well, warning that the Earth would be destroyed unless Q was "brought to us of ancient cat insulting."

Brand contacted Picard via subspace radio and summoned him to Starfleet Headquarters on Earth. She would rely on him to get a straight answer out of Q and get to the bottom of this mess.

“ _Mon capitaine_!” Q greeted his old friend when he saw him appear on Brand’s view screen. Q was standing behind her, leaning against the back of her chair. His voice startled the stern, white-haired woman.

“Q. . .” Picard replied through gritted teeth. He had perhaps never been more humiliated in his life.

“That must be some crazy cat lady, to threaten to destroy the Earth just because I hurt Sylvester’s feelings,” Q said jovially, trying to minimize the situation. “She didn't leave a forwarding address?”

“No,” barked Brand, “and we have no way of knowing who sent this package, where they want you delivered, or when or how they intend to destroy the Earth. They apparently believe that it should be obvious to you.”

“Hasn’t the Andorian messenger been apprehended?” he asked helpfully. “Why don’t you ask him?”

“Obviously we asked him,” Brand said impatiently. “He refuses to speak. Picard, you vouched for this . . . man. The responsibility falls on you to discover who is making this threat and to defuse the situation.”

“Yes, sir,” Picard said, thoroughly cowed.

***

It had been nearly twenty-five years since T’Mollek had been to Earth. She had very few memories of the planet and preferred to keep it that way. Deanna Troi had invited her to dinner at her favorite Italian restaurant in San Francisco, near Starfleet Headquarters.

T’Mollek didn’t want to go, but Deanna had been insistent. T’Mollek was off-duty, so she wore a blue short-sleeved v-neck t-shirt with a light blue sweater. She regretted her choice when she saw the red pasta sauce. She was almost sure to spill something on her clothes.

Deanna sensed discomfort and low-level anxiety from her new friend and she wasn’t sure if it was due to being in the proximity of Q, his new status as a mortal, or unpleasant memories of her Academy days. The pediatrician had had a rocky start to her Starfleet career, although she had recently had a potentially career-boosting away mission, rescuing the young daughter of a powerful man from a dangerous cave.

Things had been quiet for her since then—especially since the departure of Q, with whom T’Mollek had had a brief but intense flirtation. When Q had beamed up to the _Enterprise_ that morning, Troi could feel T’Mollek’s nervous energy from several decks away. That was the main reason she had invited her to the planet’s surface for dinner. That, and she hadn’t had good Italian food in years.

Over plates of pasta, Troi described her attempts to get a confession from Tilor, the Andorian messenger who had delivered the package to the Academy. The young man had refused to utter a word. She could tell that he was terrified and sensed that he wanted to confess but that something was holding him back. That perked the doctor’s interest, although she, too, kept silent.

“T'Mollek,” said Troi slowly and thoughtfully. “I sense that you have a suggestion.”

“A suggestion?” Startled, T'Mollek's hand trembled and flipped a ravioli noodle onto her sweater. " _Dammit_ ," she whispered, plucking the pasta from her breast and dabbing at the sauce.

“I would like to hear it,” the counselor urged as if the culinary disaster wasn't taking place. “Your opinions matter. If you have any ideas, no matter how small, you have to make them known.”

“Well,” began T’Mollek tentatively, “you said he seems that he wants to confess, but he is too frightened. Perhaps . . .? No, it’s ridiculous.”

“Please. Don’t downplay your ideas. They’re all valid, even if they’re not used.”

“My mother was raised on Earth and studied history and anthropology. One of her favorite topics of interest was coercion tactics used by military forces. Waterboarding. Torture. Even truth serum.”

“Well . . . we can’t exactly torture this boy,” Deanna said carefully. “And truth serum isn’t a thing. But . . .” An idea occurred to her. “If the Andorian believes that you could mind meld with him—that you could read his thoughts, learn his secrets—then he might be so afraid of what you might reveal to the upper echelons of his underworld network, he might reveal his contact in exchange for silence.” Troi looked at T’Mollek. “Could you do this?”

“Could I—forcibly mind meld with an Andorian?”

Troi sensed T’Mollek’s apprehension, but she couldn’t put her finger on the reason for it.

“No,” said Deanna reassuringly. “Just to question him and make the threat. Let him know that whatever you learn would become public record, including the names of all the contacts in his network of spies.”

“I have never interrogated anyone before,” T’Mollek said in a small voice.

“Of course you haven't. But this messenger is young and frightened. He is terrified his secrets will be discovered. It would only be a bluff.”

“Vulcans never bluff.”

“I know,” said Troi confidently. “That is why the Andorian will believe you.”

“But what if he doesn't talk? My threats will be empty. I cannot mind meld with him.”

“T'Mollek, your resume states that you are capable of performing the mind meld,” Troi said gently. “Was that an embellishment?”

“No! No,” T’Mollek said hastily. “I have performed . . . several. But . . . never on an Andorian. As you know, the procedure is not one to be performed lightly. Particularly if it is . . . coerced.”

“Yes, of course. But I truly do not believe it will come to that.”

“But if it does . . . I will be forced to follow through.” T’Mollek ran a hand through her curly red hair.

“I am quite certain that you will be able to do what needs to be done,” Deanna said. “No matter what that might be.”

T’Mollek sighed resolutely. “All right. I will do it. On one condition. Captain Picard cannot know.”

“But you must report to him—”

T’Mollek leaned forward and looked at the Betazoid solemnly. “I will report to him after the fact. Can you get me access to the Andorian?”

“I can take you to where he is being held,” she said. “But I can’t guarantee you will be granted access without orders from Captain Picard.”

“Let us try.”

***

Troi and T’Mollek were easily granted access to the security wing where the Andorian messenger was being held. The trick would be getting access to his cell. As they approached the guard, T’Mollek and Troi exchanged a nervous glance.

“You had better do all the talking,” said T’Mollek. “I am not good at improvising.”

“I understand.”

Troi turned on the charm while T’Mollek quietly watched the guard, keeping her hands clasped together in an effort not to fidget.

“Lieutenant?” Troi said with a confidence, “We are here to speak with the prisoner.”

The guard checked his screen. “I see nothing of scheduled visitors today.”

“We’re not visitors,” she said with a smile. “We represent the U.S.S. _Enterprise_. I questioned him yesterday regarding an illicit package he delivered to Starfleet. I am returning today for further questioning.”

“I can let _you_ in, sir,” said the guard. “But as for her, I'll need to see her orders.”

“Doctor O'Reilly is an expert at xenobiology,” she said cajoled. “She needs to examine the prisoner for potential biological threats to our planet.”

The guard looked at T’Mollek and his eyes glanced down at the bright red sauce stain on her light blue sweater. She shifted uncomfortably. There hadn’t been time to change into clean clothes. She wouldn’t have felt right changing into a Starfleet uniform to perform this off-duty task regardless.

“Let me check with Rear Admiral Brand,” said the guard. “She’s the one who wrote up the orders.”

He pressed a button to the intercom and they heard a beep followed by a voice. T’Mollek kept her eyes on the guard.

“This is Lieutenant Jane Navarro for Rear Admiral Brand.”

 “This is Lieutenant Garton. Is Admiral Brand available?”

“Not at the moment. Can I help you?”

“I have a couple of officers from the _Enterprise_ here who want to question the prisoner.”

“Have them sit tight,” Navarro said. “The admiral will be out of her meeting in an hour.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

A beep ended the transmission.

“You can go in,” said the guard. “But you only have an hour.”

T’Mollek blinked and answered breathlessly, “Oh. Uh, yes. Thank you.”

Troi hesitated, stunned by the good luck of the guard’s misunderstanding of Navarro’s words. She was also torn by her desire to complete this impossible task and her duty to explain his mistake and save him a lot of trouble later when Brand found out what he’d done. But the fate of the Earth was a priority. If they failed to locate the sender of the package and determine their demands, the guard would be destroyed along with the rest of the planet’s inhabitants.

T’Mollek interrupted Troi’s inner debate with a gentle nudge, hissing, “Don’t question it. Just go.”

Troi and T’Mollek followed the guard into the interrogation room. He exited to retrieve the prisoner.

“This time, let me do all the talking,” T’Mollek whispered.

Troi gave her a "whatever you say" look.

Lieutenant Garton brought the Andorian into the room and seated him, electro-cuffing his wrists to the armrests. He exited without a word.

T’Mollek stood next to him as Troi took a seat on a nearby chair.

“Tilor, I have been sent here to ascertain the source of the message you delivered to Q at Starfleet,” T’Mollek said completely without emotion. “Would you prefer to simply tell me the identity of the party or undergo a mind meld, in which I will discover the truth painfully and against your will?”

Tilor remained silent but his eyes couldn’t help but go to the red stain on her sweater lapel.

“Oh this?” she said casually, looking down at it. “The last mind meld I performed did not go as smoothly as one might have hoped. Now then, shall we make this one easier, or do I need to employ force?” She glanced down at her sweater again.

Tilor bravely remained silent.

“Very well. Can you confirm that the sender does indeed intend to destroy the Earth simply to kill Q?”

Tilor remained silent.

“Does the sender not understand that Q can leave the Earth at any time, and that destroying the Earth would be futile and grounds for intergalactic war?”

Tilor continued to remain silent. But now there was an almost imperceptible change in T’Mollek’s demeanor. Slightly more confident, more intense, she slowly leaned forward. “Are you aware that in performing a mind meld with you, I will know all your thoughts, all your secrets? I will know everything you know, who all of your contacts are, all of the lies you have told them, everything you have stolen and from whom? And I will know the means for contacting them and disclosing to them your location and the locations of your family? Your children?”

Tilor started to squirm.

“Are you wondering how I know that you have such secrets? Are you aware that some Vulcans do not have to be touching an entity to whose mind they wish to gain entrance? You might be thinking that Vulcans would never do this because it is unethical. That is generally true. However, I was not raised on Vulcan. In my Starfleet permanent record, I was referred to as exhibiting ‘troubling characteristics atypical of Vulcan behavior.’ Perhaps unsurprising, given my dishonorable Romulan ancestry. Captain Picard is not aware of my presence here. _He_ is an honorable, ethical man. _He_ would not approve of . . . rogue interrogation tactics, such as a forced mind meld. Or even a clandestine one. Would you like me to go on record with your secrets? As unethical as such covert tactics may be, I will be duty-bound to reveal everything I learn in this interrogation. Do you wish to talk . . .? No . . . ?”

She sighed dramatically. “Very well.”

Suddenly she roughly and unexpectedly reclined Tilor’s interrogation chair and placed her fingers on his face. “My experiences in melding with non-Vulcans is limited,” she said, her face in his face. “This may result in devastating physical pain.” She shrugged slightly. “You may die. If you’re lucky, you may only go mad. But either way, I will come away knowing all of your secrets. And again, I will be bound by my duties to share every piece of information that I learn. It will become public record. Your superiors and business associates will know . . . everything.”

T’Mollek moved her fingers back and forth tensely across his cheekbones and forehead. The Andorian cried out in pain.

“My apologies,” T’Mollek whispered into his ear. “This will get worse before it gets better. If you go mad before you reveal the name and location of the sender of the package, there is an excellent mental health facility at Starfleet where you will be cared for until . . . well, I suppose until the Earth is destroyed by whoever sent that package.”

“No! Please!” wept Tilor after a few pained moments. “Let me leave this horrible planet.”

T’Mollek abruptly turned to leave, telling Troi, “We’re finished here.”

“Stop! Stop!” Tilor cried, grasping her wrist. “He was in the Gamma Quadrant, and the Gulia star system. He was another messenger, like me. A Ferengi. He was sent directly from whoever made the threat. It is not an idle one. The Earth will be destroyed within one month. All living creatures on the planet will be burned alive.”

“By whom?”

“I don't know,” Tilor wailed, tears streaming down his face. “They’re from the Gamma Quadrant, that's all I know. It wasn't a species my contact had ever heard of. But he didn't tell me the name.”

T’Mollek held her hands out to his face, threatening to resume the link.

“I swear he didn't!” he sobbed. “Please. I have babies. . . . I don't know the name!”

“He's telling the truth,” Troi said grimly, tears in her own eyes, engulfed in the full weight of his emotional anguish.

“I know.” T’Mollek placed a hand gently on the Andorian’s head as she brought his chair upright. “You’ll be fine,” she whispered, gazing into his eyes calmingly. “Your family is safe. You did the right thing.”

As they walked out of the interrogation room, Troi whispered, “That was . . . . bad ass.”

“I know that, too.”

“I didn’t know you could lie like that.”

T’Mollek looked at her friend gravely. “I never lie.”

She removed her stained sweater and threw it into a recycling receptacle.

***

Rear Admiral Brand’s meeting was not going nearly so well.

“Who is responsible for this?” she demanded.

“I have no idea who sent the cat package,” Q replied for the umpteenth time. He kept snapping his fingers expecting to simply vanish, but it only made it look like he’d just come up with an idea.

He hadn’t.

“You must have some memory of a race of beings you angered enough to destroy the entire Earth just to get to you,” Picard said.

“It wouldn’t be the first time an alien species tried to exact revenge on you,” said Riker. “The Calamarain come to mind.”

“The Calamari were wrong to come after me, and you know it,” Q said defensively. “Besides, I've been roaming the universe for billions of years. In all that time, I'm sure I've annoyed a species or two, but I can't imagine who would be so perturbed they would threaten to ‘skin’ the Earth as revenge. This cat package is an empty threat.”

“Stop saying ‘cat package,’” Riker demanded.

“The Andorian would beg to differ about this being an idle threat,” said Picard. “Counselor Troi said he was afraid for his life when he thought he was going to remain incarcerated on Earth. You must find a way to remember who you might have offended and in what way.”

“How about a mind meld?” Riker suggested.

“Oh really, Riker,” said Q with disdain. “You people think that's the solution to everything.”

“It's possible a Vulcan could help sort out Q's memories,” said Dr. Crusher. “Scattered as they are.”

Q shot her a withering look.

“Are there any Vulcans in the vicinity who can perform the mind meld?” Picard asked Brand.

“Professor Stanek is on leave,” said Brand.

“Isn't there a Vulcan on the _Enterprise_?” Q asked, feigning overly casual semi-interest. “Red hair, blue eyes, mild forehead loaf, five-foot-one-and-three-quarters, a hundred forty-two-point-three pounds, graduated one hundred ninety-ninth in her class at Starfleet Medical Academy? Doctor . . . O'Leary or something?”

“Dr. O'Reilly,” said Picard, who had no inkling that Q and T’Mollek had ever been in contact after their initial meeting in the turbolift.

“Yes, of course. Dr. O'Reilly. She seemed to be extremely competent and clear-headed. Call her down.”

“I really don’t think she’s quali—” began Riker, who remembered that the doctor had had a clandestine meeting with Q while on an away mission.

At the same time, however, Picard said, “Very well,” and tapped his communicator. “Captain Picard to Dr. O'Reilly.”

***

Troi and T’Mollek had fully expected a reprimand for what had happened in spite of the fact that Lieutenant Garton continued to insist that he had let them into the interrogation room with Brand’s consent. Now they stood in a conference room with the captain, Riker, Dr. Crusher, Q, and Worf, the huge Klingon security chief. The captain looked furious, Riker and Worf looked annoyed, and Crusher looked concerned for her friends. Q was remarkably quiet for the most part.

“Doctor O’Reilly, what were you doing at Starfleet without orders?” Picard blustered.

“Captain, T'Mollek was assisting me at the interrogation of the prisoner,” Troi said in her soothing, reasonable way.

“Without my knowledge?”

T’Mollek spoke up. “I surmised that if I issued the false threat of a forced mind meld against the Andorian, he might feel pressure to share whatever information he had. We knew that you would never approve even the threat of such an act, so we made the decision to proceed without permission.”

“It was actually my idea, Captain,” Troi admitted. T’Mollek shot her a surprised look, and Troi added, “It was a very effective tactic.”

“I apologize for acting outside the parameters of my duty, sir.”

“You were just following the orders of a superior officer, Doctor,” said Picard, indicating Troi, who averted her eyes. “You say it was effective?”

“Reasonably, sir,” answered Troi. “Tilor could not provide specifics, but he said the message came from the Gulia star system in the Gamma quadrant. The sender is _not_ a Federation member.”

“Well, that does narrow it down somewhat,” said Picard. Something had been bothering him. “How did you manage to get past the guard to interrogate the prisoner?”

“We explained that I have experience with xenobiology and that my examination of the prisoner was to determine a biological threat to the Earth,” T’Mollek answered truthfully, although it was only half the answer.

Worf, who had remained silent up until this point, gave a sarcastic growl and rolled his eyes.

Troi knew that T’Mollek was covering for her. “We realize it was a stretch of the truth and are both prepared for whatever disciplinary measures you find appropriate, Captain.”

“No, that won't be necessary. In fact, T'Mollek, the reason I've called you here was _not_ to question you on your unauthorized interrogation, but to request your services. Ironically, in the form of a mild meld. A voluntary one. With Q.”

T’Mollek’s face went pale.

“It may help him to remember something about the beings who have sent this threat against the Earth,” Picard continued. “Although with the information you gathered from the Andorian messenger, we might be closer to the origin. Q? Does the Gulia system ring any bells?”

“None in particular, Captain,” Q said with surprising respect. “The Gulia star system is rather vast.”

“And the sender might be from beyond that system,” added Troi. “Tilor merely said he met his contact there to receive the package.”

Riker stepped forward. “Then perhaps a mind meld will allow you to help him search his memory.”

“That is not an ideal option,” T’Mollek said almost agitatedly.

Only Crusher and Troi seemed to understand her concern. The senior doctor tried to explain. “A mind meld requires a certain level of . . .”

“Intimacy?” Q suggested innocently.

“. . . that I am not entirely comfortable with,” T’Mollek finished, avoiding his eyes. “There must be another solution.”

“Q's got too many memories for his human brain to sort out,” Riker said with barely disguised disdain. “He needs help from someone with a controlled, disciplined mind. Someone who thinks in a very orderly, organized fashion. A well-trained Vulcan.” He frowned at her challengingly. “Am I not describing you, Doctor?”

“I appreciate your faith in my mental training, sir,” she said meekly. “But the mind meld is not a commonplace solution to this sort of problem.”

“Starfleet history is full of occurrences of the mind meld,” Riker went on. “Spock must have performed at least half a dozen—”

“I am not Spock,” she interrupted, her voice barely controlled. She startled even herself. But she was undeterred. “Linking minds with _anyone_ is taking a risk.”

“Isn't that what we do, Doctor?” Riker demanded. “Take risks—every day? What other choice do we have? Q needs help remembering. That's where you come in. Are you telling us you don't have the skills you claimed on your resume? That you lied about your abilities?

T’Mollek’s voice was low and tense. “I. Never. Lie.”

“Then show us what you're worth,” Picard said inspiringly, moving closer to her. “You might fail, but at least you'll have tried. That’s all any one of us can ask of you. That’s all any one of us can do ourselves. But like rescuing that little girl in the Andalusian cave, you’re the only one who can do what needs to be done.”

Q stood behind him, a tiny smirk on his face, as he waited to see what she would do.

T’Mollek considered all of this. Then she took a deep breath, looked down at her feet, and said, “This has to be off the record.”

“Why?” Picard asked, somewhat taken aback.

“Because I won’t do it otherwise.”

Picard glanced back at Riker, who shook his head in a “whatever” kind of way. “Very well.”

“I need everyone to leave the room,” T’Mollek said with authority.

The senior officers looked at each other, bemused. As they filed past her, she stepped forward and shook their hands one by one as if saying goodbye forever. They were taken aback by her solemn formality.

She shook Riker’s hand, but she didn’t quite meet his eyes. He began to wonder if he had overplayed his hand, shaming her into this. He himself hadn’t thought her qualified for the task.

To Picard, she whispered, “Thank you for your faith in me.”

Slightly befuddled, Picard answered softly, “Of course,” before walking out the door. He passed Worf, who was holding the door open. As the captain passed, Worf started to follow him.

“Mr. Worf,” T’Mollek said before the door closed. “Please remain.”

Worf looked at Picard, who hesitated, then nodded his approval. Worf growled in disgust. He reentered the room but did not close the door.

“I have billions of years of memories to search,” T’Mollek told him. “This will not be easy nor expeditious. No matter what Q or I may say or do, _do not_ touch us or release the bond. Ever. And avert your eyes. Do not look at me. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Worf replied.

“Do I have your word?”

“You have my word,” Worf said, baring his teeth. He had certain prejudices against Romulans. They had betrayed his family and attempted to instigate a Klingon civil war. Although he knew that T’Mollek had not been raised there, he couldn’t help but suspect she carried their genetic traits of treachery and dishonor.

T’Mollek understood his prejudice but she also had faith that as a Starfleet officer, he could be trusted to do the right thing.

“Sir, we could come out of this experience . . . changed. Have your phaser ready.” She glanced back at Q. “On stun, please.”

The captain and the others stood in the hallway as T’Mollek walked to the door and closed it, the glowering Worf and the grinning Q on either side of her.

***

“That seemed a lot more difficult than it needed to be,” Riker said, posturing a bit to cover his own concern.

“Is the mind meld really that dangerous?” Picard asked.

“She seems genuinely terrified,” asserted Troi.

“Of what?” the captain wondered.

“I think she's afraid of forming an overly intimate bond with Q,” she said.

“Would any of us want to actually share minds with him?” Crusher asked rhetorically.

“Well, she needs to get over it,” Riker said roughly. “This job gets uncomfortable sometimes and there are risks and inconveniences.”

Troi glared at him pointedly. “You know how strong a telepathic bond can be. Would you want to bond in such an intimate way with Q?”

He opened his mouth to retort, but then acknowledged, “OK, I realize Vulcans have special considerations with regard to their privacy and their personal sense of dignity. But a Starfleet officer has to put the mission ahead of her own needs and comforts. She was making a little too much of a show out of it.”

***

Q lay on the couch along the back wall of the conference room. T’Mollek sat in a chair next to him at his head. Worf was standing, his back to them, facing the door. He shook his head and rolled his eyes again. He felt silly and useless in this capacity.

T’Mollek tentatively placed her fingers on Q’s face, probing. She closed her eyes and moved her fingers lightly across his temples, his forehead, his cheekbones.

“Is it hot in here, or is it just you?” Q murmured, looking up at her.

She removed her hands. “I don't know what that means.”

“Oh, you do too.”

“Please concentrate. Close your eyes.” She tried again.

“I'm sorry the captain’s making you do this,” Q said quietly and sincerely, his eyes closed.

“No, he's right. It's the most logical solution.”

“I have faith you can do it,” Q said, opening his eyes to look at her. “And so does he.”

“I know. Thank you.”

“He doesn't understand the risks, does he?”

After a pause, she answered, “No.”

“Why didn't you explain?”

“Do you think it would have mattered?”

“No.”

T’Mollek drew herself up bravely. “Riker was right. We all have to take risks. That's what we signed up for when we joined Starfleet.”

“I appreciate your sacrifice,” Q said. “I know this won't be pleasant for you.”

“It's a risk to you, too.”

“I know,” he said. “But I’m looking forward to it more than you are.”

“Just stop talking and close your eyes.”

“Is this going to hurt?”

“It's not supposed to,” she said. “If done by a skilled Vulcan.”

“Which you . . . ?” He hoped she would answer in the affirmative.

She hesitated before saying, “I will do what I can.”

“I forgive you,” he said courageously.

“You will be fine,” she told him. “Most likely. Now, get comfortable. I suspect this is going to take a while.”


	2. Mind Over Q

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q, who is now human, must undergo a dangerous mind meld to discover the race that is threatening to destroy the Earth if he is not delivered to them. He also must come to terms with the nature of his relationship with the pediatrician.

T'Mollek gently placed her thumbs at the bottoms of Q's eye sockets and her fingers on his temples. She concentrated on clearing her mind of all thoughts, to open herself up to his. It had been a long time since she had touched a man's face and she felt a skip in her heartbeat. She stroked his cheek with her thumb and for a strange, unexplainable instant, she wondered what his lips would feel like against hers.

She felt a tingling sensation beneath his skin, a pulsating of Q's nerves under his eyes. They seemed to roll on their own beneath his skin.

"Ow!" he cried, sitting up and opening his eyes. He put his hand on his cheek and glared at her accusingly. "Are you trying to turn my face inside out?"

"I apologize," she muttered, her hands in the air and ashamed of her lapse in concentration. "Let me try that again. I know what I did wrong. It won't happen again."

He glared at her sideways as he lay back down. He closed his eyes hesitantly, willing himself to trust her. That had really hurt.

Tentatively, she touched his face again. This time, she closed her eyes. It helped not to look at his face. After several painstaking minutes, she felt a light tingling again, which became a pleasant buzzing. She felt his pulse quicken and his breathing grew faster.

"Shhh," she whispered. "Remain calm. You're fine."

As he relaxed, she seemed to feel a nearly indiscernible "click" as the connection was made. Instantly, his memories began to flow through her mind.

The ritual she had learned from her aunt involved intoning a monologue. "Your thoughts are my thoughts, your memories are my memories," and the like. She felt ridiculous saying this out loud, but it was how she had practiced, and she did not want anything to break her concentration.

"Your thoughts are my thoughts," she whispered self-consciously, her eyes still closed. She hoped Worf couldn't hear her.

"You're doing great," Q whispered, feeling her embarrassment. She felt him feeling her embarrassment. This only served to embarrass her further.

"Shut up," she whispered back.

"Your silence is my silence," Q whispered solemnly. T'Mollek opened her eyes and saw the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. She shook her head and closed her eyes again.

A more experienced Vulcan initiating a mind meld was able to block the recipient from his or her thoughts to some extent. But T'Mollek could not have been less prepared for this experience. She sighed with resignation and allowed their thoughts to merge, carefully shielding her darkest secrets from him to the best of her ability.

Q's thoughts, on the other hand, flooded her mind like a tidal wave. Her ears popped, her equilibrium was thrown off balance, and she gasped.

Together, they spoke aloud as one: "I. Am. Q! The great and powerful!"

Worf turned and gave them a surprised look. Should he be concerned? He held his phaser at the ready.

T'Mollek and Q then said, simultaneously and more quietly, "Q, please."

"You're no fun," they said petulantly.

"Saving the Earth is not supposed to be fun," they said. "Now, concentrate."

Sulkily, the two muttered, "Yes, Mom," and fell silent.

The thoughts came at T'Mollek fast and furious, billions of years’ worth of thoughts, experiences, and memories.

_He takes many forms. He is a Tholian watching another freeze and shatter. He is a Ferengi con artist. He is both a Denobulan and an Antaran, influencing each side in the same war, as if playing a game of chess with himself._

She had heard the stories of Q's shenanigans but she hadn't believed half of them. She realized now that his antics were even worse than she had thought. He had been responsible for the deaths of thousands of beings over the millennia. He had humiliated and mocked countless others. He had teased and tormented men, women, and children of a thousand different species, concocted misunderstandings that led to wars that led to mass devastation.

"You are a terrible person," she thought in horror. Despite her disgust, she didn't want to let Worf hear their conversation. It no longer had anything to do with her own embarrassment; she didn’t want Worf to murder Q on the spot. Q's mind was powerful enough that they were able to have this conversation silently.

"I'm not a person," Q replied telepathically. "At least I wasn't when I did all those things. Besides, I never killed anyone. It wasn't my fault that man jumped from that cliff."

"You let him believe you were his God and that you would save him."

"Well, he believed what he wanted to believe," thought Q. "And dying from that fall was a lot better than the death he was _about_ to experience at the hands of that angry mob. I'm a hero."

“You’re a menace.”

“Haters gonna hate . . .” he muttered sarcastically in a nasal tone.

"Vulcans do not hate. Now let's concentrate on the task at hand. Who have you tormented in the Guilia star system . . . .?"

As she waded through the memories, she amended, "Who _haven't_ you tormented?"

"A fine one you are to talk about being a tormentor," Q retorted. "Before you entered Starfleet, you worked your way through half the United Federation of Planets."

"I did nothing untoward," she thought indignantly. "I was merely . . .”

"Experimenting," Q finished for her.

"Stay out of there and let me concentrate," T'Mollek thought tensely.

"Far be it from me to let a few youthful indiscretions damage my feelings for you."

 _"Enough."_ This she spoke aloud, startling Worf, who turned to them and with his phaser up. Then he relaxed and turned back to the wall.

Q's thoughts fell silent. T'Mollek closed her eyes and focused her mind on the visual surroundings inside Q’s mind. Walls sprang up from below, marble columns trimmed in gold, chandeliers descended from above. It was all quite . . . palatial.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“My mind palace,” he murmured.

She sighed and refocused her energy on the image of a cat. She mentally walked through ornate corridors of memories, searching for anything feline. Vaguely she began to hear mewling. She turned to her right and followed a dark road that was lined with a variety of animals, both large and small, all somewhat resembling the beast that had been delivered to Q.

One of the cats stood alone, resting on a large book made of stone. She crouched before the cat and pulled the book out from underneath it. On the cover was etched a cat wearing a crown.

"Is this the king of the cats?" she questioned aloud. She did not know where the phrase came from but it seemed natural and familiar all the same. "What does that mean? ‘The king of the cats.’"

There was no response. She realized she was the only one speaking.

"Q?"

"It's so quiet in here," murmured Q faintly, dreamily. "I've never before experienced such . . . absence of noise. You have so few thoughts. It's very relaxing."

"It's time to end this," T'Mollek warned aloud. Worf turned to them again in concern, but obeyed her request not to step in.

"Not yet," Q yawned. "I just want to rest. This is the first time I've gotten to experience such a pure void of thought. I could stay wrapped inside your empty mind for half an eternity."

"That is one of the dangers we face," she said, hoping she was speaking loudly enough for Worf to hear and understand what was happening. "If you refuse to break the bond, we will be trapped here. Permanently."

"Just a little while longer. I'm going to take a nap," he mumbled almost incoherently.

"Q. Q!" Her mind was intertwined with his, and as he began to doze, she felt herself losing her grasp on the reality around them. She may not be able to find her way out. The courtyard with the cat and the stone began to shatter into the darkness and she lost her equilibrium

“Your mind palace is collapsing!”

“Well, your garbage castle is stupid,” he slurred.

“Q!”

"Let me sleep," he wheedled. "It's so warm and cozy. So soft and . . . dozy. . . .” A long, loud yawn, and he was asleep. She could hear him snoring lightly as if from a great distance.

Without his conscious thoughts to tether her, she was lost in the vastness of his memories. She had to admit, a billion years of thoughts from a far superior intellect did put hers to shame. She needed to remain grounded in something coherent.

_He is striding into Brand’s office unannounced, demanding to take the final examinations. He is passing them with flying colors. He is teaching. He cannot believe how stupid everyone else is._

She felt his arrogance and his superiority. Not just felt them—experienced them. These creatures really were inferior to them. _Them_. For together, they were Q. The boredom and the responsibility were at odds with one another. They could do whatever they wanted, force any being to behave or think in any way they chose. But it was so much more fun to play with them, to tease them, to use games to manipulate them into doing their bidding. Like shining a light on the floor in front of a cat. ( _The king of the cats?)_ It was harmless fun.

Almost as much fun as sharing one's mind. T'Mollek's was open and waiting for Q to wake up and discover all there was to her. All of her secrets. She wanted him inside her.

But, wait. Are secrets to be shared or to be hidden? Her darkest truths were exposed for the moment. Did she utter them aloud? Was there someone else nearby who could hear them? She couldn't remember. Where was she? She felt that she was separate from Q, they were not the same mind. They were separate. It was painful and lonely. Should she sleep the silence away? Would they ever wake up if she did?

She was losing themselves.

A deep voice jarred her, nearly split her head in two. She didn’t recognize it, couldn't understand the words. But they were killing her. Her heart felt large and leaden. It was pounding hard and slow and fast and treacherous.

_They are so alone. They want to be together and alone._

_They will never awaken._

_They see only blackness._

_They are feeding on one other's emptiness._

_This is how madness occurs._

_They are lost._

_Help me._

_I love you._

T'Mollek wrenched herself away from Q with a scream that sent Crusher and Troi racing into the room. She flung her body backward off the chair and lay on the floor unconscious.

Q gasped and sat up straight. “It's the Blotorkians. Delta Quadrant.” He looked down at T’Mollek. “Is she all right?”

“Her pulse is two-sixty,” said Crusher, scanner in hand. “We need to beam her to sickbay immediately.”

“I'm fine,” said Q sarcastically, “don't worry about me.”

“Get over yourself, Q,” Troi said sharply.

Worf stood by helplessly. “She was weeping and crying out in dozens of languages.”

“Crusher to Transporter Room.”

***

T’Mollek lay unconscious on a table in sickbay. Lieutenant Alyssa Ogawa was checking her vital signs. T’Mollek began to moan and Nurse Ogawa called to Crusher, who rushed into the room.

T’Mollek opened her eyes and looked around. “The Blotorkians,” she said weakly.

Crusher put a hand on T’Mollek’s shoulder. “Yes. We're on our way there now. They’re not far off-course from Algalon.”

“Q . . .?” she asked with concern, sitting up.

“He's fine. He's resting in guest quarters.”

T’Mollek nodded. “How long were we . . .?”

“Inside the meld? Over sixteen hours.” She administered a hypospray into her arm.

“What is that?” T’Mollek asked.

“Lexorin. You've been unconscious nearly nine hours since breaking the mind meld. This should help with the malaise. How do you feel?”

“My head is already beginning to clear.”

“Good. I'm going to keep you here a few more hours just to make sure you're OK.”

“Of course.” She lay back down.

“T'Mollek . . .?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Good work.”

***

_Captain’s log, supplemental._

_Thanks to Dr. O’Reilly’s . . . er, assistance, we were able to obtain information leading to the identity of the species threatening the Earth with destruction because of Q’s mischief. In tracing a path from the planet Blotork in the Delta Quadrant, we have intercepted an unauthorized ship heading toward Earth. They revealed themselves to be an envoy from Blotork, sent to destroy Earth. They have promised not to destroy the planet if we turn Q over to them within the next three hours. Now we must decide the proper course of action._

***

T’Mollek left the sickbay an hour later with mixed emotions and a lot on her mind. She had already proven herself competent, courageous, and capable not once but twice in highly visible circumstances. It had been a long time since she had received praise or positive feedback of any sort. But now more would be expected of her, and she couldn’t afford that. Not now.

She turned the corner in the corridor toward her quarters and was startled to see Q leaning with his back against her door, arms folded in front of him, a lazy grin on his face. Her heart jumped and then pounded.

How dare he? Months ago, when she was finally ready to discuss the nature of their relationship, he pulled the most blatant disappearing act of all time, literally vanishing in front of her, literally mid-sentence. And then she learned that he had been human and a professor at Starfleet Academy ever since. Not only that, but his antics had endangered her parents’ home world and the birthplace of the Federation of Planets itself. She had seen inside his mind and learned what a beast he really was. Furthermore, she did not need the distraction from her mission at hand. He had already thrown them far off-course and there was little hope they would reach Algalon before the remaining children died.

“I've been waiting for you,” he declared.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want to talk. About us.”

 _Too little, too late_ , she thought. “There is nothing to talk about,” she said. She tried to get past him, but he countered her, his arms still folded across his chest.

“Oh, but there is,” he said seductively, his face close to hers. “I promised I’d be back. Now that I’ve peered inside the corners of your mind, I’m all the more interested in getting to know you better. What are your likes? Your dislikes? What do you do for fun? What were you like as a child? What makes you . . . you? What do you do when you're not—?”

“My xenology makes me ‘me,’” she interrupted flatly. “It is a constant struggle. And I like being left alone.”

Q leaned forward eagerly. “A constant struggle? How so? Does the struggle invigorate you or make you sad?”

“Why would you care if it makes me ‘sad’?”

“Because,” Q said with a sweet pout, “I don't want you to be sad, Molly.”

She bristled at the uninvited nickname. “How could my emotional state be of any possible concern of yours?”

“I don’t know!” Q said, both sincerely and enthusiastically, raising his hands in the air. “I wish I did! But ever since I first saw you, I’ve been bizarrely interested in you.”

He turned slightly away from her in a sort of internal reverie. “I truly thought the Continuum was getting back at me for that incident on Rigel 7.” He snapped back to his giddy, almost manic tone. “I don't know what's going on with me!”

“From what I saw inside your mind, you are generally the one manipulating situations—pulling the strings, as it were,” she said thoughtfully. “Seeing you out of control is . . . mildly gratifying.”

“I _am_ out of control when it comes to you.”

“Please. Try to regain it.”

“But I don't want to! I like this feeling. It's fun. It's like free falling from a Kandarian mountain. Don't you feel it too?”

A denial made the most sense at this point and would have ended the conversation. However, when forced to confront the truth, her resolve faltered. “I do not know what I feel,” she admitted.

“So you do feel something!” Q cried triumphantly. “I knew it.”

She shot him a look of betrayal, and he assured her, “Oh, not from the—” he waved his fingers in front of his face—“mind melt. I just knew that you . . . _feel_ things. I’ve done my research on you, ya know. Your youthful transgressions. Your lack of betrothal as a little girl. The _murders_. I don't hold it against you. On the contrary, I find it highly intriguing.”

“Why would I think you would hold my parents' murders against me?” she asked.

“Oh, I know what I read,” he said in a “you’re not fooling me” sort of way. “Your parents died in a café on Nimbus III. Your mother’s body was found, her face torn half-off, her throat slit, next to the body of a young Romulan lad, stabbed to death. No weapon to be found—nor were your father’s remains.” He put on a mock sympathetic voice. “And a little injured girl pulled from the rubble, who disappeared on the way to the hospital.” He narrowed his eyes conspiratorially. “ _Very_ tragic and mysterious.”

With admirable composure, T’Mollek took a breath. “My parents were on a security assignment on Nimbus III. The organization they worked for did not allow family members on the premises.”

“Well, then I guess it was just another little Vulcanoid girl exactly your age and description who just happened to be pulled out of the rubble by her mortally injured mother just before said mother collapsed, dead, on top of her, stabbed to death by the very terrorist who’d set the explosion.” He took a long, loud breath, having grown winded by the sentence.

“The citizens needed a heroic myth to believe in. The tabloids on Nimbus III can be very creative. When are you going to leave?”

“I don't want to leave. And you don't want me to leave. You haven't _asked_ me to leave.”

She hesitated, unsure what to say. He was not wrong. She had not and would not ask him to leave.

“So,” she said, at an impasse. “What happens next?”

“I don't know how this works,” Q said honestly. “All I know is I want to be closer to you. I want to be—” He swiftly and sinuously drew himself to her, the hairs on their faces brushing against one another—“ _so_ close to you. I want to be—” He moved his neck in a serpentine motion along her neck—“ _through_ you. You fascinating little mixed-breed-with-a-tragic-and-mysterious-past, you.”

Their faces were, essentially, touching, they were so close. T’Mollek attempted to gather her wits once more and asked hoarsely, “Of all the tragically mysterious mixed breeds in all the universe, why me?”

He stepped back and threw his hands up in the air helplessly again. “I don't _know_! . . . You smell fantastic!” Even he was not sure if that was an answer or a non sequitur.

“Excuse me,” she said, annoyed, trying again to move quickly past him.

He faked to the left and blocked her way. She collided with him, her bare forearms brushing the fabric of his Starfleet uniform. She instinctively clutched his sleeves in her hands and she found herself leaning against him in spite of herself. Her heart pounded once more and she took a moment to just experience this feeling. Her breathing both slowed and quickened. She was outside her own body. Her head was not her own. She was floating and sinking and vibrating.

“Ah,” Q said softly. “So you _do_ still feel it, too.”

With that, he took full control of the situation. He put both hands on her shoulders and whispered into her ear, “Now let's go inside and figure this out.” He gave her a gentle but firmly guiding nudge toward her door.

***

Inside her own quarters, she felt more grounded. The few steps it had taken to re-enter her home turf and the sight of her belongings—the pufferfish carving in particular—had centered her and brought her back to herself.

“Have a seat,” she commanded.

Q looked around at the sparse décor. “That chair looks like a torture device. You know, they need to get you larger quarters. This isn't right. The way they've furnished it.” He referred to the fish carving. “The way they've _decorated_ it. Ugh!”

“That is mine.”

He shot her an incredulous look. “Yours?”

“I carved it myself. When I was a child.”

“Oh,” he said, stymied. He tried to backpedal. “Well, aside from the . . . _lovely . . . e_ r, fish . . . statue? This place is decorated atrociously.”

“I am a junior office. I was fortunate to be assigned quarters of my own at all.”

“Well, they should at least get you a bigger bed,” he pointed out. “How are we both going to sleep together on a twin?”

“We will not be sleeping together.” She didn’t show it, but she was piqued—in both senses of the word.

“I would imagine we'll have to fall asleep _eventually_ , won't we?” he asked slyly, “Well, it is cozy, anyway. But I get the side next to the wall. I like to feel nestled.” He plopped onto the bed, patting the space next to him enticingly. “C'mon. Snuggle up next to me.”

T’Mollek stared into his eyes calmly, then sat down pointedly in the chair.

“Oh, so you're going to be playing hard to get, are you? How fun!”

“This conversation is not about fun,” she said sternly. “We need to discuss what is happening between us and how to make it stop. Please take your feet off my bed.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. How rude of me. Please!” He stood and with great gentility indicated the spot on which he had just sat. “You sit on your own bed, I'll take that horrible chair.”

He waited for her. Finally, she sighed exasperatedly and rose, crossing to sit on the edge of her bed. He deftly sidled up next to her. “Fooled you!”

Undeterred, T’Mollek started to stand again but he took her arm and pulled her back down, seating her so close to him, nearly on his lap, their thighs touching.

“Please, Q,” she whispered, helpless to her feelings.

He moved in close to her ear, his hand still gripping her bare arm gently but firmly. “It's driving you crazy, isn't it? You want so desperately to just send me away, to never speak to me again, to pretend this never happened, to be a good little Vulcan with no feelings and no needs. But you can't. It's just too delicious. C'mon. Sit with me. We'll talk. I'll be a good boy.”

Her eyes narrowed as she scooted away from him. “You don't have it in you.”

He knew she was probably right, but he wanted to please her. “I'll try. Really, I will. I don't want this to end. This is the most fun I've had in at least seven thousand years. If I'd felt like this the last time I was human, I never would have gone back. Just give _in_ to it. It's so much better on this side.”

He scooted closer to her again. “Give in . . . give _in_. . .” His lips gently touched her neck.

Her lungs suddenly and involuntarily expanded allowing a loud breath to enter her nostrils, advising her that she hadn't been breathing. She couldn’t take it anymore. She calmly and deliberately stood up and walked to the chair and tried again to carry on a serious conversation.

“Now. I have a theory about our . . . unnatural attraction to one another. It is a common phenomenon and one of the dangers of such a close telepathic bond, particularly one lasting as long as ours did. I believe that when we engaged in the mind meld, a bond was created and we imprinted on—”

“I reject your theory.”

“—one anoth—excuse me?”

“I reject it,” he said, calmly dismissive. “We were bonded long before the mind meld.”

“What do you—?”

“We bonded over our mutual disdain for both Vulcans and human beings. Especially Will Riker.”

Her face held a dubious expression until he mentioned Riker’s name. “That may be,” she allowed. “But we didn't have this . . . helplessness, this—”

“Yes, we did,” he said, simply and sincerely. “That first moment I met you in the turbo lift. I was intrigued by you. And when I looked into your eyes, I felt . . .” He struggled for words. “I mean, I _felt_. I hadn't _done_ that before . . . 'feeling.'”

He shuddered slightly, saying the word as if it were smelly and dripping with something gelatinous.

She could relate.

“I don't know how it happened,” he continued. “Perhaps it was some remnant of my experience as a human twelve years ago. But I felt . . . _something_. And I liked it. And I wanted to feel it again. And you. You volunteered to question that Andorian. Not because you believed in your ability to contribute, because you clearly lack any confidence in that respect—even after all you've accomplished.”

T’Mollek rolled her eyes.

“But because you were intrigued by me,” he continued. “You hoped to see me again. You wanted to feel . . . _that_ again. Your heart. . . .” He touched her lightly over her heart. “Your stomach. . .” He touched her there, eliciting an even stronger gasp, her belly quivering. “Your head. . .” He brushed her long, curly hair back from her temple, and she leaned involuntarily into his touch. “It's intoxicating. Like a drug.” He murmured gruffly into her ear. “You wanted to be near me. I could see it in your eyes. Feel it in your pulse. Smell it in your hair.” He buried his nose in her hair. She reciprocated, putting her hand on the back of his head to draw him in closer to her. It was this that intoxicated her, and she began to feel dizzy.

“Q . . . please. . . .”

In a soft sing-song voice, he reminded her, “Ya didn't say ‘stop.’”

“No,” she agreed. “But I didn’t say ‘yes.’”

Q groaned and pulled away. “C'mon. What's the worst that can happen? We fall in love? Never happen. Someone will find out? It'll be our little secret. We'll be somehow ‘powerless’? So the hell what? I’m without any of my powers, and I’m feelin’ great! You can't be in control of everything. _Submit_ _to it_. We're both attracted to each other, we're both curious about each other. We're both dying to do this.”

He was nuzzling her again, lightly stroking the back of her neck with his fingertips, his thumb brushing her under her jaw.

“What's the harm? Just one time. Let's just get it out of our systems.”

 _He’s still talking_ , she thought. _Why is he still talking? How can I get him to stop talking?_

Suddenly the answer became crystal clear.

“We're adults,” he was blathering, “and we both want what we—”

She interrupted his long-winded seduction by putting her mouth onto his mouth. For quite some time.

“Well!” said Q after several moments, surprised and delighted. “Hello, Mary Sue; goodbye, heart!”

He went in for another long kiss. She ran her hands through his rakishly tousled hair, kissed his face and his temple and he kissed her neck.

“You didn't smell like this when I first met you,” she marveled.

“I wasn't human then,” he murmured into her neck.

“I now understand this chemical attraction based on mutually compatible pheromones. But why did I feel it when you weren't human?”

“I _toldja_ you were attracted to me from the beginning,” he said smugly. “You're not fooling anyone with that cold-hearted Vulcan act. You’re all sexual tension.”

She opened her eyes and pulled away. “There is no need to keep insulting me.”

“I know. But it's fun.” He leaned in for another kiss, but she pulled away. “Oh, no, I ruined it. For the time being. But I'll win you yet.”

“I am not a prize to be won.” She pulled herself together, literally as well as figuratively, straightening her hair and her clothes. “Now, as I was saying, I believe that our bond can be permanently broken, but it will take a ritual known as—”

“No,” he interrupted, patiently impatient. “I don't want to break it.”

“But we must,” she said, her voice hard.

Q turned up one side of his mouth sardonically. “You know, you don’t have to play up the Vulcan stoicism. Literally nobody expects that of you.”

“We’ve had our fun, and now it’s time to move on.”

“No,” he said firmly. “Why would I want to give up the one thing that makes it worth being human?”

“But I am not—”

“Human, I know,” he rolled his eyes, now fully impatient. “You've fought it all your life, blah, blah blah. But you _are_ human, you might as well embrace it. Why struggle year after year for something that cannot be? That _should_ not be.” He was on a roll now and raised an imposing forefinger in the air. “Resistance is futile!”

He started to lose himself in his own eloquent dramatics, and began gesticulating in a Shakespearean manner, his voice deepening. “Your blood may beat green, but it runs red hot with the passionate intensity of a thousand—”

“Passion is counter-productive,” she said sensibly, cutting him off.

“There must be something to it, though. So many have died for it . . . killed for it.”

“I would never kill for passion.”

Q perked up, instantly intrigued in this new topic. “What _would_ you kill for?”

T’Mollek was taken aback. “I did not say I would kill.”

“No, you said you wouldn't kill for _passion_ ,” he said reasonably. “You didn't say what you _would_ kill for.” He was rather proud of himself. “It was an implication by omission.”

“You do not know me.”

“I know I'm here. In your quarters. On your bed. With my boots off the floor. Oh, are you blushing? That's adorable!” He sighed happily. “Now I finally understand why they hold onto their humanity at all costs. The heart pounding, the blood _rising_ . . . the breathless anticipation for what is surely to come.”

“Nothing will be coming in this room.”

“Yes, it will,” he said. “Eventually. And you can't wait. Oh, this is the sweetest punishment the Continuum has ever given me!” he added as if to himself.

“Punishment? I thought you became human by choice.”

“Well,” he hedged. “Yes, of course. I mean . . . not entirely. The other Q weren't happy with me when I fell for you. No Q has ever had feelings for a mortal like that. I mean, attraction, certainly. But not this. So they . . . _suggested_ that if I chose to be with you, that I . . . relinquish my powers. But they still wanted me to gather information on the process of love and lovemaking and report back to them.” He added the last sentence in a quiet and overly off-handed manner.

She stared at him for a full three beats. “So I'm a _research project_?”

Q was aghast. “No!” he said. “No, no, no, of course n—Well, kind of. But I'm not going to tell them everything about you and me. That would be a breach of your trust. And I suspect that love is based on some sort of mutual trust. Or something?”

“Love,” she scoffed stoically.

“Well. Whatever ‘this’ is.”

“Love or not, I will never trust you. I cannot allow myself to participate in any more of this . . . amorous behavior.”

“'Amorous behavior.' Maybe you really are cold blooded after all. But why the powerlessness a moment ago?” He sat up with a sudden idea. “Are you going through pon farr?”

“Pon what?”

“Pon farr. They never told you? The Vulcan time of mating. It happens every seven years, and you have to mate or you _die_.” He melodramatically held his arms out to her. “Don't die, Tamale. I want you to live!”

She evaded his grasp.

“I don't know what you're—”

She was interrupted by the sound of the captain’s voice on the intercom.

“Bridge to Q.”

A bit annoyed at the interruption, Q nevertheless continued to zero in on T’Mollek, whom he had cornered against the wall next to her bed. His hands on the bed, he was stalking her like a cougar stalking prey, staring into her eyes as he said, “Q here. This better be good, Jean-Luc.”

“Report to the Observation Lounge,” the captain ordered. “We need to discuss how to handle the situation with the Blotorkians.”

Still staring into her eyes, Q cocked his head ever so slightly and said in a mocking but seductive tone: “Coming. . . .”


	3. Blotork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q and the pediatrician take on their most dangerous adventure together yet when Q turns himself over to the Blotorkians. It was the most ridiculous name I could come up with, and I never bothered to change it.

Picard and most members of his senior staff waited at the long conference table in the Observation Lounge room for Q to arrive to gain some clarity as to what had transpired some five thousand years ago on Blotork that would warrant the destruction of the Earth if he were not handed over to them. Riker impatiently drummed his fingers on the table.

After some time, the door swished open and Q, followed by a reluctant T’Mollek, entered the room.

“We didn't send for T’Mollek,” Riker said authoritatively. T’Mollek nodded agreeably and without missing a beat started to back out of the room.

Q quickly reached an arm out to guide her back in. “ _Doctor_ O'Reilly is my personal advisor.”

“You don't get a personal—” Riker began.

“D’you wanna save the Earth, or don't you?” Q quickly shot back through gritted teeth.

Riker couldn't think of a retort, so he sat back in his chair with an irritated sigh. Q led T’Mollek to the chair on the end, shielding her from Riker with his body. She let out a similar sigh. Q sat in a chair directly in front of Picard. Also seated at the table were Crusher, Troi, Worf, and Lieutenant Commander Data, the _Enterprise_ ’s second officer. As annoyed as she was to be called in to this meeting, T’Mollek did feel a secret thrill to share a table with Data, the only android ever to serve in Starfleet. She had read the mission logs, and he had a remarkable and heroic history. And he had starred in Beverly’s recent production of _The Music Man_. She had to admit—if only to herself—she was a bit star struck.

“Issue one," the captain was saying. "We've just received an audio transmission from a Blotorkian war vessel."

“ _Audio_ transmission?” Q asked.

“It seems the Blotorkians' technology is too primitive for visual contact. They are the ship that intends to send what amounts to thousands of nuclear bombs to the Earth, capable of destroying all life forms within a few weeks.”

“Weeks?” asked Q. “So it’s not as bad as we thought!”

“It’s . . . very nearly as bad as we thought,” said the captain, somewhat disbelieving. “Most of the land mass of the planet would be scorched instantly. Any survivors would soon die painfully of severe radiation poisoning.”

“That’s like burning down a house to kill a spider,” muttered Crusher.

“Boy, Q,” sneered Riker, “every time you become human, beings from every corner of the universe come out of the woodwork to destroy you.”

“But why are they threatening to do this?” asked Troi. “What did Q do to them?”

As though he couldn’t quite believe it himself, the captain explained. “The captain of the Blotorkian vessel—he calls himself ‘Blotork’—well, it seems that Q humiliated his ancestor—a Blotorkian king—some five thousand years ago during a diplomatic conference with a warring planet. I don't quite understand the details of the situation as it was explained to me—there’s a bit of a language barrier—but it seems it involved a . . . catlike creature and an old nursery rhyme.”

Q snapped his fingers. “Oh, that's right!” He turned to the others and explained conversationally. “They're a highly censored race with laws against certain types of communications. I was gauging the limit of their sense of humor regarding political satire using alternate lyrics to a popular children's song of the time.” He paused, looking around the room. “It's very low.” He regarded the silence around the table, then clarified helpfully, “The limit of their sense of humor.”

“They want us to turn Q over to them to face trial for this crime,” Picard went on as if uninterrupted, “and if we do so within the next three hours, they will spare the Earth. If we refuse . . .”

Q made an “explosion” sound and gesture with his hands. “Bggggsssshhhhhh!”

After that rested a bit, Riker turned to Picard and asked coolly, “So do we send him by shuttle or transporter?”

T’Mollek could hold her tongue no longer. “You can't relinquish him to the Blotorkians. He might be an agitator and an incorrigible rogue, but he is a Starfleet officer, and, at least at this moment, a human being. Despite whatever trouble he might have caused a thousand years ago, or five years ago—or earlier this afternoon—” she gave him a pointed look—“he is not a criminal. We should be protecting him, offering him sanctuary, not extraditing him to a primitive, violent planet that holds five-thousand-year-old grudges from generation to generation.”

Riker smirked. “Relax, 'personal advisor.' I was kidding. Although the prospect is tempting. You know, I think that's the most I've ever heard you say.”

“I've heard her say more,” Q said lightly, not looking at her.

“I recant my statement,” T’Mollek said dryly.

Q looked at her with a smile of devotion. “So adorkable . . .”

“That’s never been a word,” she muttered quietly and through gritted teeth.

Looking back and forth at Q and T’Mollek, quite unsure what was happening between them, Picard decided to move right along. “Suggestions on how to handle this situation?”

The officers argued and debated for over an hour.

“We could try reasoning with them,” Troi suggested. “Explain to them that Q is . . . an unusual being who lacks tact and diplomatic grace. He does not represent Earth or humans. He wasn't human when he . . . did whatever he did to humiliate their king five thousand years ago. Humans shouldn't be punished for his actions.”

“The destruction of the Earth would appear to be more than mere retaliation for his perceived crimes against their king's honor,” remarked Data. “They are holding the entire planet hostage for the return of Q as their prisoner, to undergo some sort of criminal proceedings commensurate to the offense. Perhaps if Q undergoes a trial on Earth, with a jury of his peers, the Blotorkians would find that this would suffice.”

T’Mollek liked that suggestion. The Blotorkians were apparently savage enough for a blood feud but reasonable enough for some sort of judicial system. She couldn’t imagine a Federation jury would inflict too harsh a punishment on him for what he had done. On the other hand, who were they to judge something that had happened within a completely foreign culture? Q’s attorney could argue ignorance, but would anyone really believe that an omniscient being was ignorant of the ramifications of his actions? He would have almost certainly known the severity of what he had done.

Her mind had had a glimpse of how monstrous he could be. Maybe he _did_ deserve to die.

“Why would we negotiate with them?” Worf argued. “As the _Romulan_ said—” at this, Q and T’Mollek each shot him a quick look of annoyed disbelief—“they're a violent, primitive people who cannot be reasoned with. Our firepower exceeds theirs. We should force them to back down or destroy them.”

“No, Worf,” said Picard, holding his hands up. “I am looking for diplomatic answers. We do not counter violence with violence.”

“And her _name_ is Dr. O’Reilly . . . _Microbrain,_ ” said Q, his voice dripping with antipathy.

“Besides,” added Riker, “if they hold a grudge over a nursery rhyme, I can't imagine they would take the destruction of a war ship too lightly.”

“This has been a great McLaughlin Group. Really,” said Q, checking an imaginary wristwatch. “But Worf, for once, does actually make an excellent point. The Blotorkians are even less reasonable than Catullan space hippies. I'll go with them. They only want to subject me to a little public humiliation.” He bravely dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “A stocks and pillory type of thing. I'll be fine.”

Dr. Crusher looked at him in disbelief. “Do you really think that this race has waited five thousand years to find you, threatened to destroy an entire planet—the home planet of the Federation—only to be satisfied with seeing you pilloried?”

Q looked back at her with the most serious expression he had worn in a long time. “Well, what choice do we have?”

All seemed to nonverbally agree there was no other choice.

“‘Personal Advisor,’ you've been pretty quiet during this meeting,” said Riker. “What do you suggest?”

Somewhat haltingly she admitted, “It would seem logical that Q should face his accusers and accept the consequences of his actions.”

“Besides,” said Q cheerfully. “Blotorkians don't really use stocks and pillory. They don't have limbs.”

 

***

The officers filed out of the Observation Lounge and walked to the bridge. “If the Blotorkians don't have limbs,” Riker inquired, “what do they look like?”

“They're sort of a cross between Hortas and Excalbians,” said Q. “They look like amorphous boulders and they move like snakes. They've actually never seen humanoids before. When I visited them five thousand years ago, I took their form.”

“ _That_ must have been interesting.”

“Open an audio hailing frequency,” Picard told Wolf as they entered the bridge.

“Hailing frequency open.”

A deep and, yes, gravelly voice rumbled through the speakers. “When Q to ship come?”

“Q has agreed to turn himself over to you in answer for his crime,” stated Picard. “But I ask that you consider leniency. Over the years, he has proven himself—”

“Q to bring concert. Yah?” Blotork asked.

Taken aback by the interruption, Picard asked, “Er– concert?”

Impatient by not being understood, Blotork rephrased. “Concert of Q!”

“You mean,” Q looked around at the bridge crew. “An orchestra?” He wiggled his fingers in front of him as though playing a piano. He flipped his hands, palms up, in a sort of a questioning gesture. Sotto voce, he asked, “Does anyone here play an instrument?”

Data raised his hand. “I play the violin,” he offered.

“You mean a _musical_ concert?” Q asked, turning back to the view screen. “You want us to perform for you?” He shook his head and muttered to himself, “That doesn’t seem right.”

There was the rumbling sound of several unseen voices conferring in the background. Blotork’s voice stood out. “Not concert. Conference . . . Contingent . . .?” He voice barked out in triumph. “ _Consortium_! Consortium of Q!”

“Uh, very well,” said Q, confounded. “I'll bring, uh . . . How many are to be in my consortium?”

“How many you have?” Blotork laughed. “Haw! Haw! Haw!” They heard what sounded like a cement mixer in the background.

“Um . . .” Q said, looking around at the crew uncertainly. “Three?”

“ _One is enough!”_ shouted Blotork. “Too many for now too distractioning!”

“So, just . . . one in my . . . consortium?”

“Just bring one consortium, Q! Choose now! Make specialest choice now. Choose choose!”

Picard sighed, bracing himself for what was sure to prove an interesting adventure off the ship. But he was surprised when Q said, “I choose Dr. O'Reilly.”

All heads turned toward T'Mollek, who blushed and looked abashed. She did not want this. Picard lifted an eyebrow and sighed a little sigh.

“Don't look so disappointed, Jean-Luc,” Q said soothingly. “You're still special to me. However . . .” He looked at T’Mollek with a fondness so genuine it seemed like mockery. “That speech she gave on my behalf was truly touching.”

Picard looked concerned but Q assured him, “She's in no danger.”

“Speak, Consortium Dockero Rye Lee!” commanded Blotork.

There was silence on the bridge until Q nudged T’Mollek gently with is elbow. “He wants you to speak.”

“Er . . . th-this is Dr. O'Reilly?” T’Mollek stammered. “I will be accompan—”

“Enough!” cried Blotork. “Sound strongly brave is good choice and liked of I!”

“Very well,” Picard said with a nod and strode over to his chair. “Q and Dr. O'Reilly will beam over.”

There was another rumbling of discussion from the Blotorkian ship.

“Beam?” questioned Blotork. “Of light beam? What beam of? Plank?”

Q whispered hurriedly into the seated captain’s ear. “Uh, I should mention, the Blotorkians not only don't have visual communication, they don't have transporter technology, either. They don't take it well when people suddenly . . . materialize before them.” He made a sarcastic face and added as if to himself, “Or when you rematerialize _them_ somewhere _._ Blotorkians and four-year-old Orion girls do _not_ like being unexpectedly rematerialized.”

“ _Nobody_ likes that!” Riker snapped.

Q jumped, startled. He looked to T’Mollek and smirked, pointing at Riker over his shoulder with his thumb as if to say, “Can you believe this guy?” She gave him a look that said, “Don’t look to me for sympathy. Riker and I finally agree on something.”

“Aaanyways,” said Q, “best take the shuttle.”

Picard spoke in a loud voice to the air, “What I meant to say was, they will shuttle over.” A pause. “In the shuttle craft.”

“Good-good!” said Blotork amiably. “Will greet you, I, in shuttle hole!” The communication sounded a beep to indicate he had cut transmission.

“Well then,” said Picard. “Worf, send a pilot to meet Q and Dr. O'Reilly in the shuttle ho—ahem, shuttle bay.”

Q and T’Mollek headed for the turbolift. Picard stood quickly and put his hand on Q’s arm to stop him. He whispered softly but threateningly, “You bring her back safe.”

Q put his hand on Picard’s other arm and said sincerely, “I certainly will, Captain.”

***

The shuttle pilot landed the craft in the shuttle bay of the Blotorkian ship. When Q and T’Mollek exited the vehicle, they were greeted by large, undulating beings that appeared to be made out of rubberized rock.

The largest one approached with surprising alacrity. “Greet-greet! Q and Dockero Rye Lee! Welcomings to you! Come-come!”

Blotork’s words seemed to come from multiple locations on his body, which was amorphous and constantly changing, as though his skin were a transparent, pliable bag and his insides were rocks covered in dark amber, tumbling over themselves as he moved. Without turning, Blotork undulated in reverse. It was impossible to discern where his face was—if he indeed had one.

Q and T'Mollek followed Blotork through the doors of the shuttle bay and through a corridor. At the end of the hallway was a door, and as they passed through it, they were suddenly surrounded by other Blotorkians. The creatures reached out to them, covering them with their cold and ever-changing appendages. Their faces, ears, and wrists were enveloped by the Blotorkians, but it was impossible to tell what was being done to them—or by what body parts. T’Mollek felt strangely violated. Q seemed to be enjoying himself.

“This Dockero mouth is?” asked one Blotorkian, pawing curiously at her.

“Yeth,” she answered, her voice muffled. “That is my mouf—”

“And this your fur is?” a smaller one asked in a higher pitched voice, pawing at her sleeve.

Primly, T’Mollek replied, “This is my uniform.”

“Yoo-da-fur,” the Blotorkian intoned.

“No, _you_ da fur,” quipped Q.

“THAT WHAT SAY I!” she retorted defensively.

“Sorry, sorry,” Q apologized, his hands in the air. “Never mind.”

The second Blotorkian’s appendage rubbed T’Mollek’s sleeve, cutting it as though with a knife. “We shave now you of yoo-da-fur.”

Alarm registered on T’Mollek’s face. One of her top three worst nightmares was coming true. “No, I _need_ my uniform.”

The Blotorkian stopped short. “You die with no yoo-da-fur?” she asked with sweet concern.

“She’ll die of embarrassment,” Q chuckled wryly.

The first Blotorkian hastily covered T’Mollek’s arm up with the shredded remains of her sleeve. “No kill her of . . .” He struggled with the word. “‘Mess-a-ment. Keep on yoo-da-fur.”

T’Mollek looked gratefully at Q and whispered, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Dockero.”

They were again surrounded by several Blotorkians fussing over them—spreading oils on them, fluffing up their hair. Something had been placed in their ears and on their cheeks, but when T’Mollek looked at Q, she realized the things were invisible. All during the physical contact, T'Mollek attempted to determine their motives telepathically. But she was met with a proverbial brick wall.

When Q and T’Mollek were released, they looked down to see that they were chained together with gray metallic restraints.

“Shackles?” Q asked rhetorically. “Really?”

“Their language does not translate well,” said T’Mollek vaguely while inspecting her manacles. “I do not believe they know what the word 'consortium' means.”

“I think he meant to say 'consort,'” Q mumbled, inspecting his restraints.

“Hm?” She hadn’t quite heard what he had said, and she looked up at him inquisitively.

Suddenly they were forcibly pushed out into a large on-ship arena. T’Mollek looked up and around at the Blotorkians in the stands lining the arena. There were hundreds of them.

Blotork’s voice sounded through the arena and a translation was sent very clearly into T’Mollek and Q’s earpieces. “Now present we you infamous . . . Q!” This was greeted by loud boos.

“Q treason ancient! Blotork skin shed! Emerge terror as!” More boos. Dozens of objects were thrown down into the area. They appeared to be small rocks.

“After many thousand year of, Q to revenge is!” This was met by loud cheers.

“Who this with Q?” Blotork went on, building the excitement. “Present we you to . . . paramour of Q, hah?

This time from the crowd came cat calls of a different sound—dirtier and more guttural.

T’Mollek kept her eyes on the crowd but turned her head toward Q. “He called me your what, now?”

More loudly and with the now-familiar impatience, Blotork shouted in response from the faraway platform on which he stood, “PARAMOUR OF Q, say I!”

“Oh,” T’Mollek remarked in surprise. “I believe he heard me.” She touched the invisible disk on her cheek. It was apparently a wearable microphone that was wirelessly connected to the arena’s amplification system similarly to the earpieces.

The crowd laughed at her simple naiveté.

“Hear we all you!” Blotork taunted, stirring up the crowd. “Haw haw haw! Is some funny terror, this one!”

“Terror?” T’Mollek clarified.

“Terror!” Blotork repeated.

“‘Terra _n_ ’?” T’Mollek corrected, enunciating clearly.

“Terror,” insisted Blotork. “Ter-ror.”

“It's all right,” Q said placatingly, “I call them terrors, too.”

“ _You’re_ a terror,” T’Mollek muttered under her breath.

“So I am,” Q agreed with a lip curl and an eye squint. “A _holy_ terror.”

This sexy rejoinder gave T’Mollek the shivers in spite of herself, and she took a deep breath to clear her head.

“And now we final the humiliation and end of Q. Paramour, give special honor of!”

The crowd cheered.

“It is fascinating how many cultures view combat in an arena as entertainment,” T’Mollek remarked in a detached sort of way.

But Q was not so intellectually curious. “What kind of Hunger Games scenario is this, anyway?” he asked hotly.

“Hunger Games!” guffawed Blotork mockingly. “Haw! Haw! Haw! It _is_ of hunger to be sated. Of more than _one kind_ , haw! Haw! Haw! Is fun game. Haw! Is some good jokings!”

“Seriously?” Q asked, his concern growing. “Is this some sort of a fight-to-the-death thing?”

“Why all outworlder we barbarians think is?” Blotork groused. “No fight; s _pawn_!”

“Excuse me,” T’Mollek began politely, stepping forward. “‘Spawn’?” She turned to Q and they stared at one another, uncertain what to do next.

“Spawn, terror!” shouted Blotork. Then to rile up the crowd, he started them chanting, “Spawn! Spawn! Spawn!”

“When you say ‘spawn’ . . .?” Q began questioningly over the chanting, looking up at Blotork for clarification.

“Blotork never have known very private terror copulation way,” he explained reasonably. “Only Blotork and Horta way of spawn. This rare opportunity. Fas-cin-a-ting.”

“Spawn! Spawn! Spawn!” shouted the crowd.

Calmly but wide-eyed with shock, T’Mollek raised one eyebrow and cocked her head. “They want us to spawn,” she whispered, her voice slightly higher-pitched than usual.

“I don't think I'm going to be able to,” Q said quietly, his eyes still on Blotork.

She turned to him indignantly. “I should hope not.”

“Must-must! If no spawn, we barbarians be as aspect. Earth destroy as cat. With skinning and bleeding of life. Pain and _arroooooooo_!” He made a high-pitched, shrieking sound. Then very calmly, he commanded: “So. Q to spawn. Paramour finish him.”

Now Q grinned and leaned in elbowing her lightly. “He wants you to 'finish me.'”

T’Mollek looked at Blotork and asked, her voice raised, “What happens to me after I . . . do that?” She can’t quite bring herself to say “finish him.”

“Paramour honored guest for finish the Q. After much feast, go home glory in.”

This time it was T’Mollek’s turn to grin at Q, pleased with the circumstances. “I finish you, I go home glory in.”

“Are you . . . smiling?” Q whispered, shocked.

“This is how I handle the emotional breaking point of extreme public humiliation,” T’Mollek whispered rationally.

Q raised an eyebrow and asked dryly, “You've done this before?”

“Not per se,” she whispered. “But during my early mental training, when it was all new to me, I masked my embarrassment with humor. I seem to be experiencing some sort of primal return to those early humiliations. This whole thing is actually quite unfair. I am not on trial here. Why am I being punished?”

“Louder speak more!” groused Blotork. “Cannot hear you sweet, sweet love-making words.”

“They don't know how humanoids ‘spawn,’ correct?” T’Mollek whispered quickly.

“Apparently not.”

“Then we can create our own version of spawning and they will never know the difference.”

“Brilliant! All right, Katniss, let’s get this show on the road. Where to begin?”

“LOUDER LOVE TALKINGS, SAY I AGAIN ONCE MORE TIME!!!” Blotork was not having it.

T’Mollek looked up at Q, expectantly.

He looked down at her, sweetly. “You spawn first.”

T’Mollek made a face, paused, looked down, shook her shoulders a bit to warm up, and then, in a deep and preposterously loud voice, she groaned: “I . . . LOVE YOU.”

Q likewise declaimed loudly and with gestures, “AND I LOVE _YOU_!”

“THE . . . SPAWN TIME IS NOW,” she continued, not quite meeting his eyes.

“YES!” Q was getting into it now. “LET US NOW SPAWN ONE ANOTHER, MY PARAMOUR! MY CONCUBINE! MY . . .” He lowered his voice, adding gruffly seductive, “ _CONSORTIUM_!”

He gently and yet somehow also roughly peeled back her torn uniform sleeve, held her wrist in one hand, her upper arm in the other, and kissed her soft, sensitive skin all the way up to her slightly bent elbow, making low growly sounds with each kiss.

T’Mollek stifled an embarrassed giggle; it turned out, she was ticklish. And, ludicrously, quite turned on.

“Don't laugh!” hissed Q in her ear. “We’re supposed to be humiliation-spawning. We have to pretend we're trying.”

T’Mollek immediately dissolved into loud sobs, tears streaming down her face.

Q pulled back, still holding her arm in his hands, slightly taken aback. “Are you all right?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she explained in a whisper. “I'm pretending I'm crying.”

Q tried and failed to hide a smile. “I said ‘trying,’ not ‘crying.’”

“Oh!” T’Mollek said and almost laughed. Something she hadn’t done since before her parents had died.

“That was a positively Shakespearean performance,” Q whispered, impressed. “Seriously, you should join Dr. Crusher’s little drama club; that was _very_ convincing.”

There was a loud rumbling of displeasure from the crowd.

“The rocks are getting antsy,” Q warned quietly.

“Q, I think they want us to . . .”

“Oh, yes—”

“. . . carry on.”

“Quite. Ahem.”

They made a grand show of staged lovemaking that ended in loud howls and barks. It could be said that there was a climax of sorts. Then there was a long silence while they just sort of knelt there, panting in anticipation, waiting for further instruction.

After a very, very long pause, Blotork asked with quiet, innocent curiosity, “When Paramour finish?”

“When . . . finish?” T’Mollek asked, confused.

“Finish Q,” Blotork prompted gently.

“Um. Q . . . _did_ . . . 'finish. . . .'”

Q nodded in solemn agreement. “She was _really_ good.”

“No no no no,” Blotork protested. “Kill finish of death.”

“Ohhhhh,” said T’Mollek, getting it now. “He wants me to kill finish you of _death_.”

“Oh, that's right,” said Q introspectively. “I forgot. Blotorkian males outnumber females one hundred to one, so every time they copulate, the female kills and devours the male.”

“Of course she does. Let me take care of this one.” Loudly and grandly she pronounced, “Paramour will now kill finish Q . . . _of_ _death_!”

Q did a classic double take. “Wait, what?”

T’Mollek reached up, put her hand on his neck, and pinched.

“Ow!” he yelled, then hissed, “What are you doing?” He put his hand to his neck in pain.

“Keel over,” she whispered. “Collapse. Fall over as if unconscious.”

“ _What?_ ” he asked, really irritated now.

With a deep sigh, T’Mollek pulled out her phaser and stunned him. He collapsed in a heap.

She grandly squatted beside him, threw her head back and made a loud, guttural sound, then plunged her face down onto his chest. She quickly tapped the communicator badge on his chest, placed her hand over the microphone disks on both their cheeks, and whispered, "One to beam up," onto his chest.

She pulled away from him slightly so as not to get caught in the transporter beam. As he disappeared into the beam, she stood, theatrically rubbing her belly and smacking her lips loudly, as if she'd just had a huge, delicious meal.

There was a long silence as it slowly dawned on her what she was doing. There was no way they were falling for it. She clearly had not just consumed and ingested a man. _This is going to end badly for me_ , she thought.

But then the entire arena erupted in loud triumphant cheers and Blotorkian hugs. Couples spawned in celebration right there in the stands, and the females devoured the males.

The ruse had been a success.

“Paramour for the win!” cried Blotork. “Have great feastings now!”

“Just to confirm,” inquired T’Mollek, holding up a questioning finger. “The Earth is safe, now that Q is 'gone'?”

“Earth safe?” Blotork asked, sounding a bit hurt. “Why ask this you? Why Earth would be not safe? You spawn Q, you kill Q, you eat Q, Blotork not kill Earth. Is agree! Vengeance is sated along with Paramour spawn hunger. Blotork not barbarians, say I again! TO THE BANQUET OF FEAST!”

Several Blotorkians lifted her up onto what might have been their shoulders and spirited her off to a great banquet of feast, where she was made to eat some really, really nasty things, many of which moved, and some of which hurt very badly when going down, and then just kept on hurting.

***

For the second time in as many days, T’Mollek lay on a bed in sickbay. She had crawled up there herself this time, albeit doubled over in pain.

“You look terrible,” said Dr. Crusher, giving her a full body scan. “What did they feed you at that banquet?”

“You do not want to know,” she replied.

“Let me see what I can find for you.” She walked over to the medicine cabinet. T’Mollek peeled the invisible microphone from her cheek and pocketed it.

The sickbay doors slid open and Q walked in, his hand to his neck. “Beverly, do you have anything for a _violently_ pinched nerve?”

“Were you injured in a fight?”

“Something like that,” he answered, glaring at T’Mollek.

“I attempted to apply the Vulcan nerve pinch,” T’Mollek explained. “It . . . did not go as expected.”

“I see,” said Crusher. “I’ve always thought it looked like a rather a difficult maneuver. I'm surprised you listed it on your resume if you have such trouble with it.”

Crusher gave Q a hypospray of muscle relaxer. Q flinched and T’Mollek surreptitiously peeled his microphone off his cheek.

“You love torturing me, don’t you?” he complained to the chief medical officer.

“You might be a little sore for while, but you'll live,” Crusher commented with no sympathy.

“It wasn't her fault, really,” Q said, covering for T’Mollek. “When I took this human form, I probably just . . . put my nerves in the wrong place.”

“Your nerves are perfectly in order, I’m sure,” T’Mollek said. “Doctor, will it go in the mission record that I failed to properly apply the Vulcan nerve pinch?”

“Well. Technically, all details involving injury are supposed to go into the record. But it doesn't seem too serious, so I suppose I could leave it out.”

“Yes, really it's nothing,” Q hastened to add. “I'm fine.”

T’Mollek looked down and said quietly, “No. It wouldn't be right to falsify a report. Especially with regard to a _painful injury_.” She shot Q a condescending look. “It should stay in the record.”

“It was my fault,” he argued to Crusher. “I distracted her. It was the heat of battle.”

“No,” T’Mollek said decisively. “It goes in the report.”

Crusher really didn’t care either way. “All right,” she sighed, “if you insist.” She left the sickbay to make her report.

Now that it was just the two of them, Q resumed rubbing his neck grouchily. “What kind of hackneyed nerve pinch was that, anyway?” he asked accusingly.

“It takes years of practice to perfect the maneuver.”

“And what's with the insistence your incompetence goes on the record? I'm trying to save your reputation here.”

“As always, my reputation does not need help from you. What happened, happened. It should go on the record.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “You and your overdeveloped sense of truth and duty.” He winced and rubbed his neck again. “I think you may have crippled me for life.”

T’Mollek sighed and patted the bed in front of her where she sat cross-legged. “Here. Sit down.”

He sat in front of her, his legs hanging off the end of the bed. She put her hands on his neck and pressed into his nerves, into his muscles, feeling instinctively where the pain lay. She moved her hands to his shoulder, rubbing gently at first, then applying more pressure. He closed his eyes and groaned a little. She leaned into it a bit more, and her face moved close to the back of his hair. Her eyes clouded over with the intoxicating aroma of his scalp, of all things.

“All right, Q,” she said huskily. “Let's just do this.”

Mildly startled, Q turned and stiffly looked over his shoulder at her. “What?”

“You were correct. We both want it. So . . . Right here, right now. Let's, as you said, get it out of our systems.” She put her left hand on the right side of his face and roughly drew him to her.

Q pulled away. “Well, now. Wait a minute. Let's back up a little.”

T’Mollek immediately snapped back to her normal tone of voice, mildly triumphant. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“Power is your aphrodisiac, not me. You just want to be able to seduce me.”

“But that's not true. I wasn't in power when you were Blotorking the hell out of me in front of an arena full of pervy rock monsters. I was never more turned on in my entire life.”

“So my discomfort was arousing to you,” she said scathingly. “How romantic.”

“But it was a _good_ kind of discomfort,” he argued. “I heard the way you moaned.”

“That was an act.”

“It sure sounded real to me. You were _very_ convincing.” He moved slowly and seductively to her again, burying a hand deep in her hair. He could tell from her breathing that he had gotten the upper hand back. “I know you felt something, too.” He grinned fiendishly. “You liked being watched.”

He tried to kiss her. “Unfair!” she said. “You have turned the tables back on me.” She jabbed a finger at him in retaliatory triumph. “Proving my point.”

“Eh, so what?” Q said. “You're turned on, I'm turned on. Who cares who's in control or why? Let's just do it. Like you said. Right here, right now.” He narrowed his eyes. “I'm calling your bluff.”

T’Mollek stared at him for a moment, very strongly considering this. But now reality had set in, and she blew out a long puff of air in disgust.

“Chicken!” he taunted. Then he put a hand to his stomach. “Actually, chicken sounds good right about now. I'm starved. The next time you're honored for saving a planet, I really hope it's a banquet _I'm_ invited to.”

She held a hand to her own belly ruefully. “Believe me, you are fortunate to have missed this one.”

“Yes, but that's two banquets in your honor in a row that I've missed.”

“And two in a row that have come as a direct result of your interference. You really need to stop putting me in these positions.”

He took her arm and held it in the awkward position he had in the arena. Her uniform sleeve was still cut and the fabric fell to her side, revealing a pale, bare arm. “I don’t know, you seemed to enjoy this position earlier.” He leaned in to kiss it again.

She pulled away, albeit more slowly than necessary. “I am serious. I do not wish to be the center of attention. Literally or figuratively.”

“What was I supposed to do? They wanted me to bring my Paramour. I couldn't very well bring Captain Picard, could I? Despite what all the fanfics say, he's not my type.”

“You had no way of knowing what they had in mind when you selected me,” she said, not knowing or caring what a “fanfic” was.

“Aw, I spent enough time with them, I had a pretty good idea. Bunch of bloodthirsty perverts, they are.”

“Regardless. My involvement in both this situation and the one on Syroda were brought about by your meddling.”

“’Meddling’? I would call it my . . . encouragement. My tutelage. You just needed to be pushed outside your comfort zone. The way you took matters into your own hands . . . outsmarting those gravel bags. Very rare for a Vulcan to think outside the box like that. Captain Picard was im-pressed.” He gave her a look of guileless admiration and respect.

“Q,” she said choosing her words carefully, “while I appreciate your faith in me and your concern for my career, I need your word that you will mind your own business and stay out of my affairs. Do not orchestrate situations to place me in a position of public notice. I implore you.”

“But you shouldn't just lie low. You have too much to offer.”

“It is not your place to make that decision for me. Please, respect my wishes.”

He made an annoyed grunt and said, “Fine!” He sighed and then asked, almost shyly, “Do you wanna get some dinner, or something? I just realized I've never taken you out on a proper date.”

She put her hand to her stomach again. “I can't even think of eating.”

“A movie then? The holodeck's free.”

“I really just need to go back to my quarters and rest,” she said.

“Another time?” he asked hopefully.

She shook her head. “I don't think so.”

“Well,” he said quietly. “All right then.”

He wasn’t sure how to feel. He’d known rejection and hatred his entire existence. But it had always been expected—even instigated. For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt truly, genuinely, disappointed.

He stood up, felt his neck gingerly, and then admitted, somewhat begrudgingly, “I feel better, thanks.”

“You are welcome,” she said. “I am sorry I hurt you.”

Q walked out, wondering in which way she meant.


	4. Crusher on Your Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which several medical OCs discuss the away mission that has been delayed for a year by Q and his shenanigans.

Dr. Dan Richards and Dr. Rita Bechdel sat in Ten Forward, discussing the delayed Algalon mission, which was finally about to happen. Due to all the distractions and side trips, the away team hadn’t even been set yet. Because of the inherent danger of exposure to Tarsen’s disease among many species, it was a voluntary mission and would most likely result in commendations when it was successfully completed. Richards and Bechdel had just ordered dinner when Nurse Bonita Wallace joined them.

“I can’t believe she still hasn’t posted the assignment,” Dr. Richards was saying. He had been the first to put his name in and had made it abundantly clear that he felt he was best suited to lead the team. Not only did he have the courage to risk exposure, but he was excellent at delegating tasks. “I mean, we all know Dr. O’Reilly will be on the team, but who’s going to lead it? It’s driving me crazy.”

“You need to stop asking Dr. Crusher,” said Dr. Bechdel. “It’s getting on her nerves.”

“It’s getting on _all_ our nerves,” said Nurse Wallace. “Sorry I’m late, by the way. It took longer than I expected to sort the new medical supplies.”

“Dan!” Bechdel glared at her colleague. “I told you to do that.”

“I had to get my workout in,” he said defensively. “Besides, Bonita’s so efficient, I knew she could get it done a lot faster than I could.”

“It took me three hours,” Wallace said, annoyed.

“See? And it would have taken me six.”

“It would have taken both of you one,” said Bechdel. “Dan, I’m sorry if you think loading supplies is ‘grunt work,’ but next time maybe ask for help and stop putting your pride before your duty. You’re not going to make it far in Starfleet if you don’t check that ego.”

“Ego’s what drives this ship,” Richards countered. “If we didn't all think we were God's gift to the universe, we wouldn't have made it to this part of the galaxy.”  
  
“I don’t disagree,” admitted Bechdel.

“But I am sorry about sticking you with all that grunt work, Bonita,” Dan said, flashing a charming smile. “I’ll go put your order in. The usual?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

He stepped up to the bar and Bechdel shook her head. “He’s such an arrogant jackass. It’s no wonder Dr. Crusher isn’t sending him to Algalon.”

“She’s posted the assignments?” Wallace asked, surprised.

“Not officially,” the doctor replied. “But she told me this morning she was leaving him here. Not sure who’s leading it yet.”

Just then Richards returned. “Your order’s in.”

“Thanks, God’s gift to the universe,” Wallace smiled with sweet sarcasm.

“Speaking of God's gift,” said Richards, “what do you think of Dr. O’Reilly?”

“She's all right,” said Bechdel noncomittally. “Keeps to herself. I don't really know her that well.”

“If they try to put her in charge of the Algalon mission, I'll lose my mind,” he said.

“They'd never do that,” Bechdel said. “She's even younger and more inexperienced than you.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“She’s not that young,” Wallace commented. “She just looks young. I think she’s in her mid-thirties.”

Bechdel gave her a scathing look. “That’s young, Bonita.” She took a sip of water. “Dr. Crusher will lead the team,” she guessed. “She’s not going to put that risk on anyone else. She’ll let Dr. O’Reilly administer the tests and the medication, so she’ll be the only one actually touching the children, but she’ll be the one in there with her. This strain of Tarsen’s sounds particularly tricky.”

“I'm going to talk to her about that,” said Richards. “It's time they start recognizing my leadership skills.”

“Mm hm,” said Bechdel, sharing a look with Wallace.

“Well, you don't get anywhere if you don't make moves.”

“Don't try making any moves in my direction.”

“Don't flatter yourself, Bechdel,” he smirked. “You're not my type.”

She flashed a disgusted look. “I meant toward my job. I know you wanted my assignment.”

“Oh, I thought I did at the time,” he said lightly. “But I have my sights set higher. I just need to start making some progress here and build up my resume. I heard the Chief Medical Officer on the Hood was close to retirement."

"Oh," said Bechdel. "Treat me nice and I'll put in a good word with the captain."

Richards raised his eyebrows, impressed. "You're a friend of DeSoto?"

"Best boss I ever had," she said nonchalantly into her water glass.

"Well, that'd be great. But really, all he needs to see are some away team missions on my record to know what I'm really capable of.”

“Well, good luck with that," she said, raising her glass in a mock toast.

Their orders arrived and they started to eat.

“Richards!” exclaimed Wallace. “This isn’t my usual order.”

“It’s not? Chicken Caesar salad?”

“I’m a vegetarian!”

“Oops. Be right back.” He hastily headed back to the bar.

“Crusher’s putting you in charge of Algalon,” Wallace told Bechdel confidentially.

“You think so?”

“I know so. I heard Dr. Crusher talking about it while I was doing Dan’s job for him just now. They’re leaving the away team there for ninety days. Dr. Crusher’s needed on Starbase 149 to help them set up their medical facility. You're second in charge.”

“So Richards’ll be the acting chief medical officer while she and I are gone?” Bechdel said with a comically horrified look.

“Oh no,” Wallace laughed. “She decided to put him on the Algalon team, too.”

“He'll be taking orders from me, then. He'll love that.”

“Is that going to be a problem?” asked Wallace. “You should say something to Dr. Crusher.”

“No. He'll just have to get over it. He wants to log some time on away missions. This'll be good for him.”

“If you say so,” Wallace said doubtfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bechdel and Wallace started out being a casually mentioned joke, referring to the Bechdel Test, but they ended up being an important part of the story later.


	5. Chicken Soup for the Mortal Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q shows a softer side to the pediatrician just as she is about to depart on the most important away mission of her life. Can their relationship handle what she must do?

T’Mollek had just changed into her pajamas—loose gray pants that reached her calves and a matching t-shirt made of soft gray material. She sat down on her bed with her PADD to continue her research on Algalonian physiology.

A beeping sound from the door interrupted her.

“Who is it?”

“Q.”

“One moment.” She set her PADD on her nightstand and put her robe on. “Come.”

The door opened and Q walked in carrying a tray holding a covered bowl. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, thank you.”

“I brought you some chicken soup.”

“You do realize I have a replicator,” she said, pointing to the one on the wall within arm's reach.

“It was just a gesture!” he said peevishly.

She smiled slightly and took the tray from him. “Thank you.” She sat down on the bed and crossed her legs to give him room. He sat down at the foot of the bed.

She took a spoonful of the soup and raised an eyebrow. “You know I’m a vegetarian, right?”

“You don’t have to eat it.”

“It’s all right,” she said and took a bite. “It’s replicated. Besides, I lived on a working farm when I was young. I ate actual poultry and pork raised by my grandparents.”

“Ah, a cafeteria Vulcan,” he said knowingly.

“What’s a cafeteria—?”

“Never mind,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I’m basically calling you a hypocrite.”

She nodded slightly as she looked at her soup. “I never claimed otherwise.”

She continued to eat and he watched her. After a moment, she put her spoon in the bowl and set it on the tray on her nightstand. “What’s on your mind, Q?”

“Well, it occurred to me, that despite all we've been through together, we never got to finish our discussion.”  
  
“What discussion was that, precisely?”

“About us, of course.”

“There is no us,” she said, leaning forward emphatically. “Why do you keep insisting there is an 'us'? I would think that as an immortal—or a former immortal—you would be above such base desires as carnal satisfaction.”

“It's not just carnal, what I feel for you,” Q said, a little annoyed that he had to explain this. “It's a _connection_.”

“You’re embarrassing yourself. You are above this. Despite the 'connection' we seem to have, it defies both logic and decorum for us to carry this on any further.”

“But why? Do I embarrass you?”

“No, I just—for one thing, I do not wish to be with someone so . . .” She searched for the right word. “Impulsive.”

“What's wrong with impulsivity?”

“Your impulses get you into trouble. They put others in harm's way. They get planets destroyed. How many years have you existed?”

“All of them. Billions.”

“Are you considered a child or an adult in the Q Continuum?”

“I am an adult,” Q pouted. “How could you ask such a question?”

“Well, the pouting for one thing,” she said wryly. “And then there's the matter of what you _are_ on any given day _._ Are you mortal? Immortal? Q, human? You can't make up your mind.”

“I've only dabbled in the past. Now I'm fully committed to being human. And what does it matter what I am? I'll be whatever you want me to be.”

“Why?”

“I _like_ you!” he said, taking her hands in his. “I want to be around you. All the time.”

“ _Why_?”

“I don’t know,” he said helplessly. “I'm fascinated by you. Your hair. Your ears. Your bitchy resting face.” T’Mollek raised an eyebrow at that. “Yes, that's the one!”

“You are disappointing. I would have expected more from you than a mere shallow attraction.”

“My attraction to you is not shallow. Your hair and ears are just part of it,” he said earnestly. Then he added with a sly glint in his eye, “It's the bitchy resting face that gets me every time.”

“Instead of human, you should have become a Vulcan and learned to suppress such base impulses. Then we might have had a future.”

“You wouldn't like me as a Vulcan,” Q said, wrinkling his nose. “Vulcans are no fun. Vulcans _have_ no fun.”

“We do have fun. I, for example, complete intricate number puzzles. I play chess. These activities stimulate my mind.”

“That is _not_ what I would call fun.”

“It's not for you to say. These activities give me pleasure.”

“I could give you so much more pleasure,” he said and stealthily crawled toward her, taking her by surprise when he began kissing her on the neck. She gasped, sighed, and when he didn’t stop, she relaxed in spite of herself, putting her hand on the back of his head, running her fingers through his hair.

Seizing the moment, he kissed her and she kissed him back. Her head became cloudy. She couldn’t think. She was completely intoxicated.

After a few moments of melting into him, she came to her senses, breathlessly attempting to remain calm and dignified, as he kissed her in various places above and below her neck.

“A romantic infatuation is distracting and counterproductive,” she said haltingly as he moved part of her robe away from her skin. “It is dangerous.” She frowned slightly as she felt his hands reaching slowly underneath her shirt. “I understand now why so many kill to experience this. It is akin to a chemical addiction. It dampens one’s senses and makes one crave more. Soon the craving can no longer be sated and one is left empty.”

A sudden cold realization sobered her completely. “Is this all a game to you?”

Still kissing her, not realizing she was no longer responding to his touch, he murmured, “Hmm?”

She pushed him away from herself. “You admonish me to make known my accomplishments and abilities to my superiors. And yet a romantic relationship—particularly with someone as volatile as you—would only serve to weaken me and my status on this ship.”

“Isn't that what you want?” he asked. “To weaken your status on the ship by blending in with the rest of the masses? What are you hiding from?”

“How I choose to do my job is my business. Do not tell me how to be.”

“Why not? Aren’t you constantly telling me how to be? 'Don't be impulsive, Q. Don't interfere, Q. Ignore your very nature, Q.'”

“Your nature is that of a bored, impudent god.”

“I’m not a god,” he said. “Not anymore.”

“You expect me to believe you gave up your powers for me. Omnipotence. Omniscience. The ability to create a universe out of nothing.”

“The Q are not as omniscient as you might think. Nor that omnipotent. And the Q didn't create the universe. We don't 'create' anything.”

“What do you do?”

“We . . . observe, we learn, we—we better ourselves . . . we grow, we evolve, we—”

“Evolve into what?”

“That remains to be seen,” he said, then added nonchalantly, “We've recently started procreating, so . . .”

“And what do you hope to accomplish by that?”

He stammered and struggled for words before scoffing with impatience and repeating, “ _Evolution . . ._ Growth. Betterment. You could learn a little something about those things, my friend.”

“Do you mean my race or me personally?”

“You personally, with your lack of ambition. You're mediocre. You're not even an interesting human being, let alone a Vulcan-slash-Romulan hybrid.”

“Why the interest in me, if I am so boring?” she asked, not the slightest bit affected by this intended insult.

“You take the easy way out,” he went on, ignoring her question. “Your parents never took the easy way out. They died as _heroes_.”

“I do not wish to die like my parents!” she said defensively.

Q pumped two self-congratulatory fists in the air. “The truth is revealed! You're cautious and unadventurous because you’re scared to die. Counselor Troi's got nothin' on me.”

She shook her head. “Do you actually believe you’ve just solved the great mystery of my being? I did not say that I am _afraid_ to die. I merely do not wish to die in the _manner_ they did—murdered by the man they were hired to protect, leaving their only child an orphan, belonging to no world, understood by no one.”

She felt an icy wave wash over her. She had said too much. An act of terrorism had been the official reason for her parents’ deaths.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, it sucks to be you,” Q said insolently, apparently not catching her contradiction. “So you have trust issues. Or is it an ego thing? 'Fool me once, shame on you; betray and murder my parents . . .’? Let's get to the crux of your career blandness: when your parents were killed, how did that make you feel? Vengeful? Depressed? Rebellious? Or life-endingly dull? Why even join Starfleet?”

“Psychoanalysis doesn't work on Vulcans,” T’Mollek said loftily. “Our goal is to suppress our painful memories, not bring them to the surface. Your encouragement to face my past trauma is potentially harmful, not helpful.”

“Why don't you face who you are for once? You're more human than Vulcan. And you're equal parts Romulan. I'm not saying you should embrace the savage side of your being—although that could be fun. But stop trying to be what you're not.”

“Says the 'god' masquerading as a human.”

“I'm not masquerading,” he said, insulted. “This is a punishment.”

“You could have chosen to be anything. And you chose human— _twice_.”

“Don't turn this around on me, _'Counselor'_!” he snapped. “This conversation is about figuring out who you are and what you want.”

“I thought this was about 'us.'”

He turned to her sweetly. “So there is an 'us'?”

In an uncharacteristic burst of frustration, she shouted, “No!” She took a deep breath and gathered herself. “I am well aware of who I am and what I want.”

“And I am well aware of your secret fears,” he said smugly. “Your paralyzing claustrophobia. Why do you think I put Kandeera in the cave for you to find?”

Her face fell. “You trapped a terrified four-year-old in a cave for three days as . . . exposure therapy for me?”

“It worked, didn't it?”

“She could have died!”

“But she didn't.”

“What if I had missed your reference to Andalusian caves? What if I'd taken the wrong turn in the cavern and never found her? What if the walls had collapsed in on her?”

He shrugged. “She would have died.”

“She would have died because you were experimenting with psychological treatments on a being whose psyche you couldn't possibly begin to understand.”

“I understand you better than you think,” he said with a confident smirk.

“Believe me when I tell you this: you understand nothing about me.”

“Well, she would have died anyway, if I hadn't put her in the cave to begin with.”

“You don't know that. You cannot encroach upon people's lives on a personal whim. They are not your puppets. They must be allowed to develop on their own, to grow and learn and make their own mistakes, without interference.”

“The Q Continuum doesn't recognize your ‘Prime Directive,’” Q said grandly. The guiding principle of the United Federation of Planets—non-interference—was pretty much the exact opposite of what the Q stood for.

“You're no longer a part of the Q Continuum,” T’Mollek said, going in for the kill. She couldn’t believe she had just trapped him in a battle of wits. “As long as you're a Starfleet officer, you have no choice but to follow it.”

There was a long pause as they stared each other down. Finally Q, realizing she was right, gave her a formal nod.

“As you wish.” And with that, he snapped his fingers and vanished in a flash of white light.

This had literally been the last thing T’Mollek had expected to happen. She had been enjoying this spirited debate and particularly the fact that she had won the argument.

And now he was gone. Vanished.

“So now you're Q again,” she muttered aloud.

***

_“It isn't working,” Q said in the void. “I thought I could reach her, but she's too stubborn.”_

_“She is not the superior being you took her for,” the other Q said. “She’s actually inferior, even among them.”_

_“She's worse than inferior,” he said. “She's disappointing. She refuses to see the value in what we have to offer. She says she knows what she wants. I don't know what that is, but it isn't useful to us.”_

_“Very well. It was a worthwhile attempt. But I think you have proven once again that they are not yet ready, and we have nothing more to learn from them. You have wasted enough time. You will return to the Continuum and never visit these creatures again.”_

_“What, never?”_

_“No, never.”_

_“You mean . . ._ hardly _ever?” Q asked hopefully._

_“NEVER!”_

_And with a flash, Q was back among his own, for eternity._


End file.
